THE GLOW-WORM by ANN RADCLIFFE

How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
On a midsummer's eve when the fresh rain is o'er;
When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle through the glade,
And swiftly in the thin air the ligh swallows soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flowers unprest
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moonlight steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checkers all the ground, and guides them to the bower,
The long-haunted bower, where the nightingale grieves.

Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the evening star,
And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
How cheerless would they be, though they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near!

Yet cheerless though they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!
For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him through the grove,
They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And afar in the woods they raise a dismal shout,
Till I shrink into my cell again, for terror of the sound!

But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabour, and the horn,
And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string,
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy queen,
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
That yester eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
To seek the purple flower whose juice from all her spells can free.

And now to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabour, and the lute;
If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

Oh! had I but that purple flower whose leaves her charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

But soon the vapour of the woods will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
Then, cheerless will they be, though they fairies are,
If I with my pale light come not near!

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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